Nebula
"You're going to kill us both!"
Nebula has one hand on a quad blaster and the other on the wheel because Stark has shot the autopilot function and the ship is careening violently off course.
She made a mistake, she knows, giving the Terran that medicine. She'd been trying to do him a kindness -- this only proved how foolish kindness is.
He'd dozed off for a few minutes before abruptly waking and stumbling to the washroom. Nebula had ignored him, grateful not to have to converse. He is too inquisitive for her liking, too interested. She doesn't trust it.
But she wishes she'd paid attention because now he's barricaded himself below deck, surfacing only to hurl weaponry in every direction before ducking away. In addition to the autopilot, he's managed to hit navigation, half of the seats, storage, and the tape deck, leaving it to replay the same upbeat song again and again.
She's very concerned about the air supply.
"I just wanted to show you what I made."
There he is. Stark's head is poking out from below and he's muttering to himself again. She can see his eyes are unfocused, but his disorientation does nothing to lessen her alarm; Stark may well be dying, burning out, and hallucinating out of his mind, but it hasn't stopped him from fiddling with Rocket's not inconsiderable stash of tech.
"Actually, it's not DUM-E-point-two if you'd just -- would you stop, please? Please look?"
"Stark!" She barks at him, ship angling sharply.
“Shh," he hushes, turning toward her. He's set something off; she hears it skittering around the cabin as she rights the ship again. "We oughtta deploy some parachutes."
"I swear I will tear you apart."
"Maybe a care package? Think that's too much? Granted, I was away at MIT when I was his age, but I feel like I would’ve killed for a little box’o’ramen."
Nebula thinks she should just kill him; it would be much easier. Although it was not quite easy at this moment because she needs to steer the ship and every bit of attention she gives the Terran takes it away from that goal.
Well. With the navigation on the fritz, she doesn't know where to go anyway. She quickly slows the ship down so that she can deal with the man.
Once she's able to leave her seat, she raises the blaster, pointing it toward him.
"Oh, I wouldn't."
He's grinning at her and she has only a few seconds' warning before she feels something ricochet off the glass behind her and bounce at her back. She ducks and it narrowly misses her head, but latches onto the floor.
She sees a blinking light and immediately dives forward, rolling toward Stark.
There is a loud bang and smoke and Nebula is certain they're both dead. She twists around so she can strangle Stark herself for his idiocy, but when she turns to him he's giddy, a mischievous smile on his face.
"Decoy," he assures her before he starts coughing, the smoke -- thankfully that's all it is, rather than gas -- starts to fill his lungs. She doesn't know what he means, except that perhaps he hasn't just blown a hole in the ship.
“What was that for?" she asks him, lifting herself back up to stand and not expecting a reply. The smoke hasn't cleared, so she moves over to open up some ventilation, send it elsewhere.
Stark is still hacking away, which fortunately means he may be less likely to cause trouble. She crosses back over to hauls him up to the bridge and onto one of the passenger seats. He protests, seemingly out of reflex.
"Pep will have words," he says more coherently, looking up at her, though his gaze is distant. Nebula again wishes she could just get rid of him, but as the thought crosses her mind, she's reminded too powerfully of the events that had just transpired.
Life is precious. Her sister had known that, had worked so hard to prevent all this from happening.
She wants to honor that, honor her, and that means taking this path. One where she didn't just kill a dying man because he is extremely inconvenient.
"Please shut up," she tells him instead, barely registering his nonsense now as she straps him into the chair. She's too rough with him and one of his sleeves tears off. He doesn't appear to mind, his attention falling to his own chest where the glow of the reactor pulses.
Or maybe his head is just lolling. She frowns, crouching down to him. He startles suddenly and starts struggling against the straps, his eyes wide, panicked.
“We got one chance! I have to call—" He gasps, the words rough in his abused throat as he flails against her. "The phone, please -- I need him!"
Nebula places an arm against his chest and her free hand over his wrist, holding him down until he stills.
"Stark," she barks at him. "Focus. You must calm down."
Which might be asking a lot. He's running hot, his blood pressure is rising, his heart rate far too high, too unstable for a human. It's not just the wound that's killing him. She doesn't know what to do.
"S'cloudy," he mumbles at her. "Interstellar. Fog. Kinda poetic, but it doesn’t make sense. How’s that come around through translation?"
While she still doesn't know what he's talking about, this seems better because at least he's not shouting at people who aren't there.
"Just...stay put," she tells him, pulling back. She's satisfied she's tied him down enough for now and will keep an eye on him. She turns to assess the cockpit and the damage he's done.
It is extensive.
"FRIDAY, what are we dealing with?"
He's not talking to her -- she can tell that much -- but when she glances back in his direction, he is staring at her with an intensity she is not expecting.
"Well?"
Perhaps she is wrong.
"Damage to navigational systems," she tells him, although she does not think it will register. Stark looks as though he is considering her words very carefully, but he winces suddenly, his gaze losing focus again.
She wants to give him something else to make him sleep, but she is wary of messing further with the Terran and medication. As she turns her attention away from him, he speaks up.
"Run a scan," he says, the words a distant command. It would rankle her, but he is so pathetic she does not care.
"Terra is not advanced enough--"
"Just do it."
She ignores him, but he seems undeterred.
Stark begins to recite numbers, breathlessly and without pause. It's clear to her how exhausted he is -- she can hear it in his voice -- and she is surprised he has not passed out again. It takes longer for her to recognize the string of incoherence as coordinates, but she takes a chance and dials them in.
"It's gotta be Wakanda," he breaks the muttering before adding another string of numbers that make no sense.
Stark gasps suddenly and Nebula looks back at him uneasily, her hands on the wheel again as the Guardian's ship roars back to life. She turns back and scans for a signal using the coordinates and to her surprise, the ship recognizes distress.
She prepares the ship to jump -- they are only a few systems away -- but as it powers up, an alarm sounds before the engine hisses and dies.
Nebula curses under her breath and spins out of the chair to check what's happened. She passes Stark, whose head has rolled back and his eyes closed.
"Shhh," he says softly, without opening his eyes. “Use me."
She's learned not to dismiss his rambling out of hand.
"What do you mean?"
His head rolls forward, hanging over his chest -- hanging over the glowing piece stuck there.